


The Migratory Habits of Seekers & Other Birds of Prey

by Femme (femmequixotic)



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Harry/Viktor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-10
Updated: 2009-11-10
Packaged: 2017-10-02 13:46:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femmequixotic/pseuds/Femme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One choice, one mad, desperate choice and everything I loved was gone. I'd known it would be the moment I said yes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Migratory Habits of Seekers & Other Birds of Prey

**Author's Note:**

> Written for florahart in the 2009 hp_beholder fest on Insanejournal. Many thanks to my three betas. And _huge_ thanks to bethbethbeth for her infinite patience. :) Flora, for the opportunity to write this, I owe you one.

The morning my world fell apart, I ran through Warsaw.

Running grounds me, the steady slap of my feet against the ground, my rasping gasp as I suck in another lungful of cold morning air, the burn in my calves as I push myself up yet another hill. It's the antithesis of flying. Running keeps me tethered to the earth, but moving, always moving.

I've never been one to stand still for long.

The implosion was coming, I knew it. Dimitar had warned me when he filed the story the night before in Sofia, his note filled with regret-- six years of boyhood friendship never entirely faded, it seems. I left the hotel as soon as his owl flew off, the parchment still crumpled in one hand. My Vultures had been at the bar, drinking to the day's win over Grodzisk, and Nadya had grabbed my hand when I set my vodka aside, asking me with that bright laugh of hers exactly where I thought I was going. "Celebrate, Viktor," she'd shouted, raising her glass and Mihail and Dobri had roared in agreement, slapping me on the back. The others laughed and called for another bottle or three.

I didn't answer. I didn't want to share in their cheer. They'd know soon enough what I'd done and hate me for it. When I looked back, Dobri was watching me over the rim of his glass, his eyebrows drawn together; dark eyes too knowing, too sharp. I turned away.

One choice, one mad, desperate choice and everything I loved was gone. I'd known it would be the moment I said yes.

Strange what you can recall from significant points in your life. I can still feel the curiously slow thrum of my pulse, the tight, trembling clench of my sister's hand around mine when the Healer, face solemn, walked towards us with the news of my father's death. I can taste the antiseptic tang of hospital corridors lingering with each breath. I'd been nineteen, and even now, all these years later, if I close my eyes in church I can still hear the sober chant of the funeral liturgy. I can still smell the heavy incense and the beeswax of the flickering candles that surrounded my father's body.

From this night, I remember the rain, cold droplets stinging sharply against my face, splashing into the river's waves, soaking me until I shivered. I remember the narrow streets of the Śródmieście, twisting along the Vistula River; the stench of urine beneath a bridge; the smooth edge of a metal bench curving beneath my thighs.

For hours I sat on the embankment watching the black water, my breath a white puff in the cold air. I've no memory of my thoughts--only of the jumbled emotions they produced. Fear. Relief. Anger. Grief. Overwhelming, all. And when the sky finally lightened into a pale grey and the owls swooped overhead with their morning post and tightly rolled newspapers, I ran. Hard and fast, down cobblestoned alleys and across wide bridges, as if I could leave it all behind me if only I pushed myself enough.

An hour I ran, the shops and pavement and Muggles a wet blur around me, until finally, inevitably, my feet led me back to the hotel, exhausted and sweating despite the chill.

They were waiting for me in the lobby, all thirteen of them, kit and bags at their feet, their mouths thin lines of anger. Nadya held the _Orakul Sofia_ tightly in one fist; I could see my newsprint face crumpled above her white knuckles. Her bottom lip was caught between her teeth. She wouldn't look at me. None of them would. I stared at the paper, at the headline in thick, heavy Cyrillic spread beneath the masthead. _Quidditch Star Throws Match._ They'd used the photograph from the last publicity shoot, I thought numbly. I smiled grainily out from the parchment, confident. Every inch the Quidditch captain. A role model for the ages, the paper had called me, year after year.

If only they'd realised.

Mihail was the first to break the silence. "Bastard," he said, just before his fist slammed into my jaw, knocking me backwards into the side table. My captain's piping already edged his cloak. I wasn't surprised. As many times as he's had his legs wrapped around my hips late at night, in one hotel room or another, he never made any secret of his aspirations. I would have done the same if I were in his place.

Dobri's pained face hurt the most. He stopped in front of me, eyes searching mine. "Why?" he asked softly.

We'd been friends from the day we challenged each other to throw ourselves off the highest tower at Durmstrang, summoning our brooms to catch us. I'm not fool enough to think this did not change everything between us. I wanted to explain myself though, to tell him my reasons. Perhaps he would have understood. I'd have liked to think so, at least. Instead, as per the terms of my agreement, I held my tongue. After a long moment, he closed his eyes and sighed, then turned away, mouth twisted in disgust.

And then they were gone, and I was alone. Rain dripping from my clothes puddled on the parquet floor.

***

Aleksandra found me at the hotel bar hours later, a bottle and a half of vodka in me already. I poured another glass with an unsteady hand. She took the bottle from me and set it aside. Her gaunt face was already beginning to fill out again. Two weeks and the treatments were working.

"You should have told me, Vitya, you stupid idiot," my sister said softly, and she stroked her fingers over my hair, the way she had when I was younger and inconsolable. I fell against her, a pissed fool, burying my face against her shoulder, the enormity of it all finally sinking in. The barkeep averted his eyes.

I left a hundred Galleons next to the bottle. My moment of weakness never made the papers.

***

"There's no other option at the moment, Viktor." Boyan looked at me over the rims of his glasses. I was in his office in Sofia. Posters of me as part of the Bulgarian team and with the Vultures hung behind him. It's incredibly disconcerting to watch life-sized images of yourself scowl down at you. I could feel disgust radiating from them.

Boyan coughed, catching my attention again. "It's been six months now, and they're not going to lift your ban, appeal or not. Unless you're willing to switch to Quodpot--"

That American bastardisaton? Not likely. I curled my lip and reached for the tiny prototype of the first Firebolt hovering over his desk blotter. The bristles thrummed against my palm. "I'd rather shovel Hippogriff shit."

Boyan sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He'd been my manager since I was fifteen, playing in the intra-Continent school league for Durmstrang during the term and for Bulgaria on holidays. I suppose he's the closest thing to a father I've had in the past eighteen years. God help him. "That's fast becoming a very possible career choice for you."

I tossed the Firebolt from one hand to the other, saying nothing. I didn't need to.

"How much money do you have left?" Boyan asked after a moment.

I shrugged. "Enough." That was an exaggeration, and he knew it. I'd always been bollocks with finances. What difference did it make? Money was meant to be spent, not hoarded. It didn't do you any damn good when you were dead.

He _hmmm_ed at me, his fingertips drumming against the ink-splattered desk blotter. A half-empty snifter of brandy was perched on a thick stack of parchment and newspapers next to his elbow. I rolled the tiny broom between two fingers and reached for the brandy. It was heavy and rich--one of those ridiculously expensive French vintages that my salary had helped Boyan buy. I wasn't his only client, but I had brought in the most money. Emphasis on the _had._ No one wanted to touch me now, not even for a coaching position. The sponsorship offers had been pulled away, contracts broken by solicitors mumbling about morals clauses. What little money I'd managed not to bleed out on brooms, liquor and nights out partying in the past twenty years was tied up in property I had no hope of selling in the current financial market (so the estate agents were glumly telling me as yet another potential buyer backed out at the last moment) or had been paid to the neuromagical department of Hôpitaux Universitaires de Genève for Aleksandra's treatment.

Experimental potions are far from cheap, after all.

The Firebolt snapped in my fingers. I stared down at the splintered broom handle, surprised and no small bit ashamed. Boyan's oldest son had given him the prototype three Christmases past. He'd searched for three months before he located one in a Ugandan Quidditch official's collection. The office was silent for a long moment. "I'll replace it," I said finally.

"With what money?" Boyan asked wearily. "You can't even afford the upkeep on your flat." He took the Firebolt from me. The broken bits twitched in his palm. "You've taxes due on it soon. Not to mention the land in the Rhodopes."

I'd planned to build a house on the mountain property just outside the village I'd been raised in, to someday move my mother and Aleksandra out of the too tiny house my family had lived in for three generations. That was before my sister's illness. It wouldn't be happening now--or at least any time in the near future. I stared out the window. Wind was gusting through the tops of the trees, sending their branches swaying against the dull grey concrete façade of the apartment building across the avenue. It was boxy and bland and crumbling at the cornices, a sad relic of Soviet Muggle architecture. This section of Sofia had always depressed me. I never could understand why Boyan insisted on renting here, though he claimed he'd prefer to remember the ills of the past, thank you.

I sighed and looked back at him. "I'm trying to sell."

Boyan dropped the Firebolt in the rubbish bin. "You have to do something, Vitya." When he looked back up at me, his face was sober. "You've been an idiot, you realise."

"I know." I ran my hands over my face. "I just thought... Wronski played until his seventies."

"Wronski wasn't an idiot."

There was that, yes. I slumped in my chair. "So what do I do?"

Boyan was silent for a moment, then he coughed and leaned forward. "I do have one offer. I doubt you'll care for it."

I eyed him suspiciously. "Tell me it doesn't involve fancy dress on a broom at children's parties."

"Not quite." Boyan's mouth twitched to one side. "But there are children."

Christ. I'm not fond of the little beasts, I'll admit. All too often they're obnoxious and arrogant and whingy, always clamouring for autographs or photos that their overindulgent parents feel more than entitled to demand, no matter where I am. There's nothing like having a pleasant dinner interrupted by a middleclass twit rudely insistent that I ignore the roast lamb cooling on my plate and take notice of his wide-eyed, snotty eight-year-old. "In awe of you, Mr Krum, really, the boy talks of nothing else!" I never wanted to be a bloody role model for the Cleansweep set, that's for damn certain. All I ever wanted to do was play Quidditch.

I frowned. "What sort of offer, Bobi?"

Boyan hesitated, and then rifled through the day's post piling up in the basked on the edge of his desk. He pulled out a neatly folded letter on heavy parchment and handed it to me. "Flying instructor," he said quietly.

The crest on the top of the parchment was instantly recognisable. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

I looked up, not bothering to read the rest of the letter. "When do they want me?"

Boyan smiled.

***

"You don't have to go, Vitya," Aleksandra said. Her brow furrowed as she watched me pack. She sat on the edge of my bed, twisting her skirt between her hands. Her bald head was covered with a brightly patterned scarf. The potions were effective, but they had side effects.

I latched the trunk and cast a shrinking spell on it before tossing it into my satchel. "Don't, Sascha."

My sister sighed. "Scotland's so far away."

The mattress creaked when I sat next to her. "I'll come home for holidays."

Aleksandra nodded and swallowed, staring down at her hands. I pulled her close, wrapped my arms around her. "It'll be all right," I whispered. "I promise."

"I know." She caught my hand. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." I squeezed her fingers, doing my best attempt at brotherly reassurance. I wasn't entirely certain I was convincing. "It's not your fault."

Aleksandra leaned against my shoulder. "Mama's worried." She pursed her mouth. "So am I. You should be playing Quidditch, not teaching flying."

I tried to smile. "I think I could probably find a pickup match somewhere in Britain."

Her lip curled.

I touched her cheek, turned her face towards me. "I'll be fine. It'll be good for me. New start and all that. I'm glad of it." I met her eyes. "Really."

Aleksandra looked away. It was a lie, and we both knew it.

***

The castle looked different. Smaller than I remembered it, though I suppose twenty years does alter one's memory. The grass was still brilliantly green beneath my feet, and soft, and the willow tree Hermione and I had lingered beneath in the spring was still spreading its long tendrils over the lake's edge. I kissed her there once, and I can still recall how pink her cheeks were when I pulled away.

I hefted my satchel over my shoulder--the three miniaturised trunks inside rattled together, padding charm be damned--and headed up the wide stone steps to the entrance hall. The door creaked when I pushed it open and inside, the school was quiet, the air cool and slightly musty. The faint scent of beeswax wafted from the polished wooden panels lining the walls, and dust motes glittered in the sunlight spilling through arched and leaded windows.

Term didn't start for another two weeks, but I was certain I heard laughter echoing down the main staircase. One foot on the bottom step, I peered up into the shadows.

"Hello?" I called.

Light footsteps pattered down the upper hall, a soft giggle following, and then a _hush_. I caught a glimpse of a bright red braid swinging around the corner. I took another step up, curious.

A cough behind me sent me whirling around.

"Mr Krum," the Headmistress said, a small smile curving her thin lips. She held out a hand, gnarled and shaking slightly. Her frailness shocked me as I took it. She was older now, past ninety, and her shoulders slumped, but her green eyes still took me in coolly behind her square glasses, and her hair, more streaked with white than I remembered, was still pulled back in a tight knot at the nape of her neck.

I shifted from one foot to the other, awkward, suddenly eighteen again. "Professor McGonagall."

She snorted. "Minerva, please, Viktor. We are colleagues after all."

It felt wrong, but I nodded. "Minerva."

"I'll show you to your quarters." A quirk of her finger and I found myself following her down a side hallway, one I didn't recall from my year at Hogwarts. It was narrow and twisting, and I was certain I'd never find my way out again when it opened up into a wide room, filled with tables and overstuffed armchairs and glass-covered bookcases. Like the Great Hall, the ceiling was charmed to reflect the sky, and a counter in the back held a tea kettle and coffee pot. A wire tree stood next to it, branches covered with various cups and mugs and saucers.

My eyes went to the books at once. They were one of my weaknesses, and two entire trunks tucked in my bag were filled with the contents of my library. I couldn't bear to leave them behind.

"The staff room," Minerva said. "Most of the others have yet to arrive, so for now you've your pick of spots; however, I must warn you Septima's quite fond of the chair near the window, so I would make a practice of avoiding it. She's more than willing to cast a Stinging Hex your way."

I nodded. I was far more interested in the chairs near the bookcases anyway.

"Desperate for professors are you now, Minerva?" A portrait scowled down at us, dark hair falling over his face. Snape. I'd spent a year hanging about his House common room, after all. His mouth twisted to one side as he studied me. "Taking in fallen Quidditch heroes?"

I flinched. Even the portraits had heard. Wonderful. Perhaps I ought to have taken the Quodpot offer. Americans never care what happens outside their own country.

"Pots shouldn't be criticising the kettles, Severus," Minerva said calmly, and I'll admit to a certain satisfaction when Snape's eyes narrowed and he took a step back, still as sensitive in oil as he was in flesh. He sniffed haughtily and crossed his arms.

"I suppose," he said tightly, "that the position of flying instructor is not a _critical_ post requiring ethics or intelligence--" Minerva turned a cold frown on him and he pressed his mouth into a thin, tight line, before huffing and stomping out of frame.

Minerva rolled her eyes. "Severus can be..." She trailed off, a tinge of sadness in her voice before she shook herself. "You'll be taking over Rolanda's old quarters," she said tightly, and her heels clicked against the stone floor, leading us down another corridor.

I followed her. Shadows flickered across the walls, cast by floating torches, and I saw more than one house elf scurry out of sight, disappearing into unseen gaps between the stones. We stopped before one arched wooden door. Minerva tapped her wand against it; it swung open silently.

"You'll set your own password, of course," she said, turning to me. A nod to the door across the hall. "Bathsheba Babbling is across from you--she teaches Ancient Runes, and our Herbology professor is just around the corner. Neville Longbottom. Perhaps you met him during the Triwizard Tournament?"

"He was a friend of Hermione's," I said. I could barely remember him. Soft and pudgy about the middle. Utterly terrified of everything but his plants.

Minerva nodded. "I'll leave you to unpack. Your office, of course, will be near the South Entrance. When you are ready, summon an elf to show you the way. Rolanda's files..." She trailed off, brow furrowed for a moment, a faint twist of pain that was barely noticeable, and she looked away. Rolanda Hooch had died of a heart attack unexpectedly just after the end of term, still fairly young for a witch. I wondered if the whispers I'd heard about her and Minerva during the Triwizard Tournament were actually true.

She pursed her mouth, the small lines at the corners turning down, deepening. "Rolanda's files," she said after a moment, "are still there. I would ask that you go through them before our preliminary meeting tomorrow morning to acquaint yourself with the student's records." She looked at me sharply, turning to leave. "Half ten in my office, if you please."

I nodded. There didn't seem to be anything else to say. I doubted she'd accept false sympathy, and I didn't feel up to giving it. Instead I watched her walk away, shoulders stiff and head held high.

I rather liked the old bat.

A soft rustle from the corner caught my attention. A face peered around the rough-hewn stone, pale skin and wide brown eyes. A red braid swung forward.

"Zdravei," I said with a small smile, greeting her.

The brown eyes blinked slowly at me; plump fingers grabbed the braid, twisting it between them. And then with a giggle and whirl of braids, she was gone, running footsteps echoing down the hall with a faint _Al, Al, wait for me._

I laughed and closed my door.

***

The student files could wait.

Instead, I went to the Quidditch pitch, broom in hand. I wanted to fly, needed to in order to settle myself. I've always been most comfortable on a broom, for as long as I can remember. On Mama's mantel is a photograph of me barely one and holding fast to a toy broom I'd been given for Christmas. Next to it is another of me ten years later in my first-year Durmstrang uniform, sitting on a battered broom Papa had found in the back of a secondhand shop in Sofia. Aleksandra clung to me in that picture, black curls bouncing, laughing as only a delighted six-year-old can.

I adore my little sister. Five years separate us, and perhaps that should be an unbroachable chasm between siblings, but it's not. It never has been. She's always been the one who understood me best, whom I understood best. She's the one who came to me when I was twenty-two and told me I'd turned into a great giant arse, international Quidditch star or not. I would do anything for her.

Even give up my career.

I made slow lazy circles around the pitch, a steadily widening gyre rising into the air, curling around the castle towers. The wind fluttered the hem of my robe. It was cool up here, and I could see the sun glittering on the lake below, disappearing into the thick shadows of the Forbidden Forest. A hawk dove past, wings spread and one bright eye fixed on me. I flew higher, to the point where breathing was sharp and painful and the earth was a patchwork blur of colours beneath me.

There are things about myself I'm not fond of. I suppose everyone has those moments. I can be a self-righteous prick. I'm horrific with money. I was mocked as a child for being poorer than my schoolmates and I suppose I'd spent the past two decades trying to prove my worth, to live up to my fame. And now I was destined to be remembered as the Quidditch star who threw a match for his own gain.

I wondered what it would feel like to let go. To fall, fall, fall. Would I die before I hit the ground? Would I even be aware of the pain?

My sister would never forgive me. My mother would be devastated.

I turned my broom, urging it downwards, fast and angry, gripping the broomstick between my thighs. Wind whipped my hair back, stung my cheeks, and the thrill of flying, buoyed in the air by nothing but a fragile piece of charmed wood, overwhelmed my thoughts. I swept past the Quidditch goals, skimmed along the upper row of the stands. This is what I loved, this feeling of _belonging_ that I'd known the first time that ancient Cleansweep had sprung into my hand.

Flying always made me happy.

With a laugh, I somersaulted through the air, feet tucked beneath my broomstick. I could feel the thrum of magic beneath my fingers as they gripped the polished wood. I jerked up hard, climbing higher, my angle steep, and then dove into a Wronski Feint, barely pulling out before I slammed into the soft swell of the pitch. Instead I slowed, letting my feet drag along the ground lazily.

And then I saw the boy, sitting cross-legged along the patchy grass near the stands, a look on his face that I recognised all too well. He couldn't have been a student; I'm no great shakes with children, but even I realised he was too young for Hogwarts by at least a year or two. I slid off my Firebolt 1400, throwing it over my shoulder, bristles up, and strode towards him.

He blinked and tensed, as if he wanted to run. But he didn't. Instead he stood up, carefully brushing the dirt and grass from his jeans. The hems were frayed, the denim faded, and his red t-shirt looked too big--as if handed down from a much older brother. The worn lettering on it advertised a Weird Sister's concert. They'd disbanded five years ago.

"I'm Krum," I said. "The new flying instructor. Bit too early for students to be about."

"My dad works here," he said, nervously, looking up at me from under a thick, dark fringe as I approached. "He's the groundskeeper now." He twisted his t-shirt in one hand; it bunched around his thin hips. His feet were bare and filthy. "I'm James. I just wanted to watch--"

I smiled and held out the broom. "Here."

James' jaw dropped. "That's a 1400! I read about them in _Which Broomstick_."

"Well, it's a version of one." I watched him as his fingers curled reverently around the broomstick, and I pulled off my flying robe, tossing it over the pitch barrier. The summer sun was warm down here, almost unbearably so. "It was customised for me."

A lick across his bottom lip and he looked up, eyes wide. He stroked a thumb across the broom knob. "It's beautiful."

I had to agree.

James was blissfully lost in the broom, his hands smoothing over the perfectly trimmed bristles. Flying-mad. I was all too aware of the symptoms.

"Do you play Quidditch?" I leaned against the stands. My Vultures t-shirt caught on the worn wood.

"No." A wistful look crossed James' face. "I used to a long time ago, but Dad's not keen on any of us flying now." I raised an eyebrow, curious as to what a long time ago could mean for someone not yet out of his first decade. James shrugged and lifted his chin. "It's a long story."

"Jamie!" Another boy, younger by a few years, all brown arms and messy, sweaty black hair, ran onto the pitch. He stopped short upon seeing me and pushed his glasses up his nose with one finger, looking hesitantly between the two of us. His eyes lingered on the broom, but he didn't come near enough to touch it.

James sighed. "That's Al. He's my brother." The last was said with an affectionate, if exasperated, huff before he scowled. "He's been in the Forest again, I reckon, like he's not supposed to, Dad _says._"

"Hello," I said, with a nod. Al ignored me, frowning instead at his brother. He hitched up his jeans, scratching at his hip. They'd been ripped along the outside seam and repaired again, far from expertly. Dirt was streaked across one of his round cheeks and a few stray leaves were caught in the back of his hair.

"Dad won't know if you don't tell him," he said petulantly. He brushed the leaves out of his hair. They drifted to the ground in a slow swirl. "Anyway, it's almost tea and Lily and I couldn't find you _anywhere_."

James rolled his eyes. "Well now you have."

His brother's mouth turned down. "Fine. Dad can come get you." Al looked pointedly at the broom. "What's that?"

"Just a broom." James shoved it back at me. "Professor Krum was just showing it to me."

I started at the _professor_. It's not what I'd considered calling myself. Ever. "Just Krum," I said quickly.

"You sound weird," Al said. James scowled at him and Al shrugged. "He does."

I laughed. "I'm from Bulgaria. It's quite far from here."

Al studied the broom in my hands, still from a few steps away. His eyes gleamed speculatively behind the glasses. "Do you fly?"

"Of course he does, you stupid git." James punched his brother's arm, hard enough to make Al wince and glare at him. "He's the _flying instructor._"

"How was I supposed to know?" Al rubbed his shoulder, pulling his sleeve up just enough to show fresh scrapes from a thicket criss-crossing his skin. Somehow I doubted he was going to keep his afternoon ramble from this father of his. "We're not allowed to fly," he told me, mouth pursed. "We might fall."

"Everyone falls at least once," I said easily. "You just have to learn how to land." I hesitated. What the hell. It was my job after all. "If you want to learn, I can teach you."

The boys exchanged a long look, Al's face troubled, James' defiant. "Maybe," James said. Al looked startled, and more than a little impressed.

"We better go," Al said after a moment. "Dad'll come out…" He trailed off.

James gave the Firebolt one last longing look. "Yeah." He nodded at me, tugging at his t-shirt again.

They were almost out of the pitch when I called after them. "I'll be out here tomorrow if you want a lesson." I regretted it immediately. It was stupid of me, and certain to get them both in trouble if they accepted. But still. I knew the want.

James glanced back; his brother tugged at his arm, whispering something into his ear. They disappeared around the stands. I stared after them pensively for a long moment before straddling my broom and kicking back off into the sky.

***

I skipped supper in the Great Hall in favour of a stew and a glass or three of whisky while pouring over Hooch's old student records. It wouldn't do to be unprepared for McGonagall, after all.

At half one, I closed the last folder and stretched, putting out the flickering lights with a wave of my wand and a mumbled _Nox._ I was already curled beneath the crisp cool sheets, tired from an afternoon of flying and an evening of reading, before I realised I was ending a day less morose than I'd been in months.

It was a curious feeling.

***

"Who's the groundskeeper?" I asked Minerva, halfway through our meeting, cutting off some incredibly dull recitation of the duties I'd have once term began. "I remember it being a giant back when I was here."

She looked at me in surprise then leaned back in her chair, settling her glasses on the tip of her nose. "Rubeus retired a few years ago. He and his wife settled in France."

"Oh." I shifted in my overstuffed tartan-covered chair, one leg cramping. The Headmistress's office was too warm, any possible hint of chill in the air removed by the crackling fire in the hearth. "So I guess the kids aren't his."

Snape snorted from his portrait frame on the wall. "I take it he's met the Potter hellions."

My head jerked up. "Potter? As in…"

"Yes." Minerva frowned at Snape. He rolled his eyes and sprawled back in his chair. "Harry Potter is our groundskeeper."

"May God help us all," Snape muttered.

I blinked. "I thought he worked for the Ministry. Magical Law Enforcement or something." I hadn't heard from Hermione since she'd sent the wedding invitation, Christ, was it ten years ago now? But I was pretty damn certain she'd said Potter and Weasley'd both joined the Auror corps.

"Trounced out," Snape drawled, studying his fingernails.

Minerva looked sharply at him. "He chose another career path."

"If that's what you call it," Snape sneered.

"Severus," Minerva said, her voice weary, and his mouth tightened but he fell silent. She looked back at me, her eyes cold over the rims of her glasses. "Harry asked to take on Rubeus's position and I was quite pleased to accept. Might we resume our previous discussion?"

I nodded, distinctly unsettled.

***

James was waiting for me at the pitch. Today's t-shirt had _West Ham F.C._ emblazoned across it. The jeans had been replaced by shorts tugged low by his fists balled in the pockets, but his feet were still bare and streaked with dirt.

"Did you mean it?" he blurted out. "About the lesson?"

I dropped my flying robe on the grass. "I'm here, aren't I?"

Chewing on his bottom lip, he shifted from foot to foot. "You could just be flying."

I tossed a broom to him and he caught it with ease. I'd grabbed one of the school models from the Quidditch shed on my way out. "If I'd wanted to do that, I'd have taken off from the Astronomy Tower." I grinned at him. "Less wind resistance today."

James' face lit up.

***

He was a natural. From the moment the broom jumped into his hand that much was obvious. He sat like he'd been on a broomstick since birth, though he told me he hadn't touched one since he was five, and that'd been a training broom for children.

I wasn't surprised. No one looks at a broom that hungrily unless they have a need to be on it. James didn't just want to fly. He _had_ to, and it infuriated me that Potter refused to let him have that out of some ridiculous fear. Potter. Afraid. I couldn't even imagine it--he'd been idiotically brave about the most inane things in school. I wondered if a curse had addled his mind.

James handed me back the school broom. His hair was rumpled, his eyes bright, his cheeks wind-burned. "Can I come back tomorrow?"

I didn't have the heart to tell him no. "Keep it from your dad?" I asked and he grinned.

"Always."

***

The Great Hall was just as I remembered it, vaulted ceilings and dusky sky. The sun was just beginning to set when I took a seat at the staff table. The rest of the hall was empty, long benches and tables waiting for the students to noisily fill them. For now, however, there was blissful calm and the soft clink of silverware and quiet conversation among the few professors who had begun to arrive at school in preparation for the start of term.

Longbottom looked up at me, smiling. He'd grown taller since the last time I'd seen him and lost the pudge that had plumped his cheeks. "Krum," he said cheerfully, passing a pitcher of chilled pumpkin juice to me. His hand was spotless, but I could see the traces of potting soil just beneath the cuff of his sleeve. "Getting settled?"

I shrugged and poured a glass of juice. "Not much to do."

"Yet." Longbottom cut into a sausage. I winced as it spurted over his potatoes. British food was shit. I was already missing the paprika bite of Mama's chicken stew. Longbottom chewed slowly. "Wait 'til the students get here," he mumbled through a mouthful of bangers and mash.

The door of the Great Hall swung open, and James bounded in, followed by his brother and the red-braided girl who I'd presumed had to be their sister. James shot me a wide grin and waved. I nodded in return as Longbottom watched me curiously. I speared a sausage from the platter in front of us and ignored him.

And then Potter came in, and I nearly dropped my fork.

He wasn't what I'd expected. I remembered a wiry, too-thin, too-pale boy. Not any longer. He was still too thin, but his shoulders were broad, muscles obvious beneath the drape of his t-shirt. I recognised it; James had been wearing it the first day I met him. It looked entirely different on his father, that's for damned certain. The red set off the golden-brown of Potter's tanned skin, and his hair was impossibly black, curling messily over his forehead and around his ears. He needed a haircut. I hoped he resisted the urge.

My stomach twisted; I felt an all-too-familiar ache of want in my cock. I shifted uneasily. Six months ago, I could have had my pick of the men and women hanging outside the Vultures' changing rooms after a match--and had. Frequently. Since then though the only fuck I'd been able to score had been in a back alley after the exchange of a few Galleons.

Christ. I needed to get fucked. Wanted to get fucked. Potter was _not_ the best solution. Obviously. To begin with, the man was without doubt straight; he'd reproduced three times, after all. I'd a wretched habit of being attracted to men who panic at the sight of another cock.

Still, I watched him follow his children. He moved with a lazy, unconscious grace, herding the three to their seats down the table. He flashed a smile at Longbottom, who nodded and raised a hand in greeting.

"Where's his wife?" I asked, reaching for my juice, and Longbottom shot me a frown. It took me aback for a moment until he sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

"Right. Sorry. I forgot you probably wouldn't have known." Longbottom rubbed his thumb over the edge of his plate. "Ginny died a few years ago. Quidditch accident. Lily was just two."

I stared down the table at Potter. He reached for a bowl of peas, leaning down to listen to something his daughter was saying to him as he dumped a few on her plate. She flicked a stray pea towards James who caught it and popped it in his mouth, much to her disgust.

"How'd it happen?" I looked over at Longbottom. He shifted in his chair, obviously uncomfortable. "It must have made the papers here."

He nodded, eyes fixed on his plate. "Made them everywhere. Gin had just started playing for the Harpies again. A Bludger hit her, knocked her off her broom. It happened so fast, no one could stop it. She broke her neck when she landed." He took a shaky breath, licked his bottom lip. The juice in his glass shook as he lifted it. "The medics couldn't do anything."

I sat frozen, stunned. I remembered hearing about it five or so years ago. All I'd known, though, was that it was an English Seeker. We'd been playing a series of matches in Africa. Someone had mentioned the accident in the changing room post-win, and it'd sobered us all up. It was something that could have happened to any of us, flying a hundred metres above the ground. Mama had Floo'd me the next day, begged me to be careful. I'd told her I would.

"Christ," I murmured. I couldn't take my gaze off Potter. No wonder he didn't want his son on a broom. Or anywhere near a Snitch. I don't know that I would either if that's the way I'd lost someone I loved.

Potter turned, and our eyes met. Light glinted off the rim of his glasses; his smile slipped.

Guilt rushed over me. I pushed my chair back.

"Krum?" Longbottom caught my arm; I pulled away. I had to get out. Now.

I could feel Potter's eyes on my back as I left.

The door slammed shut behind me.

***

Potter found me out on the pitch, hours later. I'd been chasing one of the school Snitches, catching it just moments before he stepped out of the shadows.

I landed, sliding off the Nimbus 3050 I'd grabbed from the broomshed on my way out. Squatting next to the Quidditch box, I tucked the Snitch into its slot, locking it down and closing the box with a click, then stood up, brushing off my knees.

"Nice flying," Potter said, his hands in his pockets.

I shrugged. "I've gotten rusty."

"In just a few months?" Potter smiled faintly, then his face fell as I looked away. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean--"

"Of course not." I grabbed the Quidditch box, hefting the strap over my shoulder. The Bludgers were heavier than I was used to; regulations had changed in 2009, but I doubted that Hogwarts had bothered to replace their kit. Too expensive.

Potter ran a hand over the back of his neck. The lights from the pitch illuminated his face, washing out his tan. He looked young here, more like the Potter I remembered. "I read the papers."

"I'm sure you did."

We were both silent for a moment, then he sighed. "James has been talking about you."

The tense look on his face annoyed me. My earlier guilt began to slip away. "And you'd rather your son not associate with a cheater." I started to walk off. "Fine. Tell him to stay away from me then."

"That's not what I meant." Potter's voice stopped me. I looked back. He'd turned away from the light, and his shoulders hunched forward as he wrapped his arms around his chest. "He's ten. He's impressionable. He..." Potter hesitated for a moment, then lifted his chin. "He wants to play Quidditch."

"You don't want him to."

A slight pause, then, "No."

I didn't believe him. He'd been too Quidditch-mad himself when he was younger. You don't just lose that; you can't turn it off that easily. I should know. Sometimes, for some people, it's part of you. That need to fly, to feel the flutter of a Snitch's wings between your fingers. Potter needed it. I could tell by the turn of his head when he looked away. Hesitant. Angry, almost.

"Do you care what he wants?" I asked after a moment.

Potter nearly whirled on me, eyes flashing behind his glasses. "I'm a good father."

"That's not what I asked." I gripped the ancient leather strap of the Quidditch box. It was worn beneath my fingers; I could feel the dried patches crumble slightly, tiny flakes wafting down to the ground.

His jaw tightened, then relaxed. The small flutter in his cheek twisted my gut. I wanted to press my mouth to it, feel it move against my lips. I swore beneath my breath, Bulgarian whispers that made Potter's eyebrows draw together. I hadn't wanted cock this much since Vulchanov had first buggered me in the steam room of the Bulgarian team's practice house when I was sixteen.

I didn't understand this attraction. I'd barely noticed Potter when we were younger. I'd been too keen to slip into Hermione's knickers. But now...

Potter coughed, and I realised I'd been staring at the curve of his throat. His cheeks were flushed. I turned away, my face burning.

"If you want your son to keep away from me, then tell him to," I said gruffly. "Otherwise, I'll do my job." I met his eyes.

"He's not in Hogwarts," Potter said, voice tight. "He's not your student."

"He will be soon enough." I started towards the Quidditch shed, then stopped, turning back. I had to know. "How long has it been since you've been on a broom?"

Potter replied without thinking. "Five years."

"A shame." How anyone could live that long with that sort of fear was beyond me. And it wasn't the Potter I once knew. I tossed my broom at him. He caught it with one hand, staring blankly at it. "Maybe you should try again."

I walked away.

***

A knock on my office door pulled me from the storeroom, stumbling out over the brooms and Beaters' bats I'd been cataloguing. A swirl of dust sent me into a sneezing fit.

I rubbed at my watering eyes. "Fuck."

James Potter stuck his head around the doorjamb. "I thought you'd be out on the pitch," he said with a sulk. "I was waiting for _ages_."

I tossed a broom off my chair and dropped down into it with a tired grunt. "Your father made it clear to me last night that you weren't going back up on one of these."

Sullen ten-year-old eyes glared at me. "So?"

"So, he's your father," I retorted. "You're not flying."

"That's not fair!" James folded his arms across his chest. "You _said_\--"

My mouth twisted to one side. "I said to keep it from your father. And you obviously didn't."

"I didn't tell him!" James kicked at my bookcase. A stack of _Quidditch Illustrated_s from twenty years ago toppled over. Hooch had been a bit of a pack rat, I'd discovered. "Al got angry at me. Stupid arse. He told Dad I'd been flying with you. I tried to tell him I hadn't!"

I raised an eyebrow, amused. "You lied to your father."

"I'm not any good at it," James muttered. He shoved at one of the magazines with the toe of his trainer. Aidan Lynch waved from the front cover, broom in hand. I'd gone against him in my first World Cup. Twat.

"Look, you were right. Your father's got a good reason for not wanting you in the air." I leaned forward, my elbows on my knees. "I know what happened to your mother."

James froze. His mouth trembled. "Leave her out of this."

Neither of us said anything for a long moment, and then James scrubbed a fist across one eye. He looked away, his arms wrapped tight around himself. He was just a kid, scared and upset, and I wanted to pull him close and tell him everything'd be okay eventually.

I didn't.

"My father died," I said instead, "when I wasn't much older than you right now."

James shrugged, still not looking at me. He chewed on his bottom lip.

"You're the oldest, aren't you?" I asked. He nodded, staring at the stack of papers on my desk. I sighed. "Me too. I didn't know what to do afterwards; I just knew I had to take care of my mom and sister."

He looked at me then, his eyes bright. "No one takes care of Dad but me. He won't let them, not even Aunt Hermione and Uncle Ron. He just tells them he's fine, but he still doesn't eat sometimes when he gets sad..." He trailed off and bit his thumb.

"And your brother and sister are too little to know."

James nodded again. His shoulders hunched; he looked remarkably like his father had the night before. I wondered if Potter even realised.

Fuck it. I handed him a broom.

"Meet me by the lake in twenty minutes," I said. The hope scrawled across his face made me sigh. "And don't let your father see you, for Christ's sake."

***

"I don't remember much about Mum," James said as we hovered in the air. I'd taken him out down the valley, up one of the mountainsides. We stayed low to the ground, barely seven feet up, and I kept him away from the cliffs, ignoring his pleas. I wasn't a complete idiot.

"You were five?" I eyed him. He held the broomstick tight in both hands, his knuckles white. He wasn't frightened of flying, that much I knew. His mother, on the other hand, was a different matter.

"Yeah." James rubbed his thumbnail over the broomstick, flaking off bits of varnish. "I remember she used to sing me to sleep, and Dad would laugh at her because she couldn't carry a tune." He smiled, a small curve of his mouth. "Dad laughed a lot more then."

I didn't say anything, just waited.

"Lily looks like her." James glanced over at me. "I think that bothers Dad a little. Not that he lets her know. I just see him sometimes when he's watching her, and he looks really sad."

"It's hard to lose someone you love," I said quietly.

"I guess." James swung his feet in the air. "She was brilliant at Quidditch, Uncle Ron says. He talks about her more when Dad's not around." His brow furrowed. "I remember Mum and Dad arguing some though when I was little. He didn't want her to play again." He shook himself then looked at me again. "Do you miss your dad?"

I took a moment before I answered, staring out at the mountain beneath us. Thistles and heather bloomed across the rocky slope. "Every day," I said finally, and James sighed.

"Me too," he whispered. I reached over and squeezed his shoulder gently. He gave me a watery smile.

I turned my broom. "Ready to head back?"

James nodded.

***

Potter was waiting for us at the Quidditch shed. Mouth tight, arms crossed.

"Shit," James murmured, his broom over his shoulder. I didn't bother to correct his language. It was my sentiment too.

Potter jerked the broom from James' grasp. "Home," he snapped.

"Dad."

Potter turned a vicious glare on his son. "_Now_, Jamie."

James ran. I didn't blame him. I felt like it myself. Rage was rolling off Potter in waves. I didn't know whether to be terrified or turned on.

I settled for both.

"What," he said through gritted teeth, "the _hell_ do you think you're doing with my son?"

I unlocked the Quidditch shed and took the school broom from him, stepping into the cool shadows to hang it on one of the racks on the wall. When I turned around, Potter was next to me, his body taut and tense, fists clenched at his sides. I took a step back, all too aware of him. A shelf of broomstick bristles pressed against my shoulders.

"He wants to fly," I said finally, pleased that my voice was calm. "You can't keep overprotecting him like this--"

"I'm his _father_," Potter said tightly. He pressed a finger against my chest. My breath hitched. "I don't care if you think I'm right or wrong. _You_ don't get to make those choices for me."

I caught his wrist, but didn't pull his hand away. My thumb pressed into his warm skin; I could feel his pulse flutter beneath my fingers. "Then maybe you should listen to your son for once."

Potter stared at me, eyes bright with anger. He smelled of sweat and dirt and I wanted so fucking badly to touch his chest, to feel its firmness beneath my palms.

Instead, like a damned fool, I kissed him.

He stilled, and my mouth moved against his, soft and careful, and for just a moment, a brief, hesitant moment, he leaned into the kiss, his lips brushing mine.

When he jerked away, slamming the door behind him as he left.

I sank to the floor, the worn boards creaking beneath me. I could still feel Potter's skin against my fingertips, could still smell him, could still hear that quiet, sharp intake of breath when my mouth first touched his. I jerked my jeans open, my hands scrabbling for my cock.

It took three quick tugs before I came, hot and sticky over my fist.

I slumped against the wall. Fuck, fuck, _fuck._

Still. He hadn't pulled away. Not immediately.

Christ, I was fucked.

***

"You do realise, Krum, that the brat's sulking in the corridor outside your office, kicking a damned football against the wall?" Snape demanded.

I set the teapot down, watching as the leaves in my cup swirled to the bottom. "I don't think that's my problem."

Snape shoved Violet from her frame over the staff lounge sofa, ignoring her squeak of protest, and glared down at me. "It is disruptive at best."

"There's no one around to disrupt right now." I poured a bit of milk into the tea, fading it to a soft khaki. I looked over at him. "Why do you care anyway? Your frame's up in Minerva's office. You could avoid James."

Snape pressed against the frame, his hair falling across his face. I wondered if the furrow between his eyebrows was fixed permanently in place by paint or if he really was just that miserable of a bastard. "If he breaks something--"

"It can be repaired." I carried my mug over to my favourite chair and settled into it. "So why do you care? I thought you hated kids."

He didn't say anything for a moment, just fixed me with that baleful scowl of his. I ignored him. I'd faced worse professors at Durmstrang. I'd always been amused by the fear Hogwarts students had for their potions master. Snape huffed and leaned back against the carved chair in Violet's portrait. It was woven through with ivy and roses; he looked utterly ridiculous.

"You should talk to him," he said finally. When I just looked at him, his mouth thinned. He dipped his head; his hair swung in front of his eyes. "Five years the boy's been dragging himself about the castle. The first time he showed a spark of interest in anything was after you took him flying."

I sipped my tea. I didn't want to have anything else to do with any of the Potters. I'd rather avoid them, to be bluntly honest. Particularly their father. I felt my cheeks heat. I hadn't slept at all the night before, and I'd nearly tugged my prick raw just remembering the press of Potter's mouth on mine. This had to stop. I'd been down this road before. Straight men only led to blue balls and broken noses at best. At worst, you might as well rip out your heart.

Snape glowered at me. "Are you listening?"

"Look," I said, my irritation rising, "his father doesn't want him to fly--"

"His father's an utter idiot," Snape snapped. "As I've told the both of them more than once."

I set my mug aside. "What do you want me to do? Take the boy flying? It's not my decision--"

"Then _make_ it yours," Snape growled.

I stared up at him. "You're really annoyed by this whole matter," I said finally.

Snape was silent.

"Why?"

A muscle twitched in Snape's jaw. We glared at each other. Snape looked away first. "I owe it to his grandmother," he said at last, voice quiet. "Lily would have hated to see him like this." He hesitated, then spat out, "Either of them."

I rubbed my palm over the worn, piled chintz of the chair arm. He was serious, I realised. I traced a thumbnail over the curve of a leaf. It trembled beneath the light pressure. "I'll see what I can do."

Snape gave me a curt nod, slipping silently out of the portrait frame. Violet clambered back in, the plume on her hat shaking in annoyance. "Well, I never," she said tightly. "Severus Snape, you horrid bastard. Knocking a poor lass out of her chair like that..."

I let her prattle on, barely hearing what she was saying as I stared out the leaded window in front of me, watching the clouds drift across a blue summer sky.

***

James was still slumped against my office door, his black and white football clasped between his legs. His shorts had ridden up; I could see a fresh scrape on his knee, most likely from the rough-hewn stone of the corridor floor, I suspected. He pushed his hair back out of his eyes and looked up at me with a sullen frown.

I sat down next to him, taking the football. It felt oddly light between my hands. I'd seen the Muggles play from time to time in the various cities that Vultures matches had taken me to. The game had never made any sense to me.

"My dad's an arse," he said finally, wrapping his arms around his knees. He scratched at a bug bite on his shin. "I'm supposed to stay away from you."

I rolled the ball up one arm, catching it before it fell to the floor. "Which is why you've been trying to kick this through my office door all afternoon?"

He shrugged and scraped the toe of his trainer across a broken stone paver. I should fix that before term started, I supposed. It'd be just my luck if some idiot student tumbled over it and split a lip.

"Jamie," I said, and he glared at me.

"Don't call me that."

I sighed and bounced the football off the wall in front of us, catching it just before it slapped into my face. "James." He huddled in on himself, miserable. "Your dad's just trying to do what's best for you."

"For _him_, you mean."

I couldn't really argue with that point. We sat silently for a moment, then James looked over at me. "You're not going to take me flying any more, are you?"

I shook my head. "I think your dad's wrong," I said bluntly, "but he's right that he's your dad and it's his decision."

"Balls," James snapped. "I'll learn anyway when I'm in Hogwarts--"

"Yes, well, that's another year down the road." I ruffled his hair and he batted my hand away. "Don't push the issue yet."

Neither of us said anything for a moment. I could hear the cry of a hawk through the open window at the end of the hall. Afternoon light filtered through, pushing the shadows further into the corners. A faint breeze wafted in.

"Sometimes," James said finally, quietly, "sometimes I _hate_ him." He looked over at me, his brow furrowed, his chin lifted, as if he thought I would be horrified.

I snorted. "You're supposed to. He's your dad."

James blinked, then a small smile curved his mouth. "You're supposed to say that's bad."

"I'm afraid to tell you, Jamie boy, every bloke I've known hated his dad sometimes," I said with a grin.

"Even you?"

"Christ, yes." I tossed the football to him; he caught it easily, without looking. The boy had damned good Seeker instincts. I stood up and held out my hand to him. "Who taught you how to play football?"

James wrapped his fingers around mine and let me heft him up. "Dad. And Uncle Dean. They both support West Ham. We go to matches when they play up North."

I popped the football from beneath his arm. It bounced on the floor. James stopped it with one foot, looking up at me. I laughed. "How's this for a trade? Teach me football and I'll see about talking to your dad again."

The boy's face glowed. I only felt a twinge of guilt. I was pathetic enough to use anything to see Potter again, even his son.

I kicked the football out from under James' foot, racing him after it. Our laughter echoed off the corridor walls.

***

I found Potter outside, shoring up the wards on the East Wall.

His t-shirt was off, tossed across a flat rock nearby, and I couldn't tear my eyes away from the smooth, golden sweep of his shoulders. His muscles flexed with each press of his wand against the heavy wards, each one straining with the effort of weaving the wards back together. Sweat rolled down his spine, one solitary drop disappearing into the gape of his jeans just above his arse.

I watched him, studying the way he moved. His feet were bare on the grass, and he arched back, one palm pressed to the side of the wall, mouth forming the silent words of the charm.

He was gorgeous.

I wanted him. I hadn't wanted anyone so badly in years. It made me ache, made me want to walk up to him, press my body against his, wrapping my arms around his waist. I wanted to feel him move against me. Wanted to know what his skin tasted like, how his stomach would feel under my palm, how his prick would curve when I stroked it to hardness--

"Krum?"

I stumbled backwards, my breath catching. Potter had turned, his warding finished, and he was watching me with a wary eye. He reached for his shirt, rubbed it over his damp face, then pulled it over his head. I nearly groaned as his brown nipples disappeared from view. Jesus Christ, something was wrong with me.

Potter tucked his wand in his jeans. He looked curiously nervous. "Did you want something?"

"James," I managed to get out.

Potter's face paled. "Is he hurt--"

"No!" I shook my head, and he relaxed. "Just..." I hesitated, rubbing my hand over the back my head. I needed a haircut. "I told him I'd talk to you."

"Oh." Potter frowned and he pulled his glasses off, cleaning them on his t-shirt. He looked oddly young without them. He slid them back on. "I'm not changing my mind."

"I know." I shoved my hands in my pockets. "But I told him I'd talk to you anyway."

Potter didn't say anything for a moment, and then he nodded. "Want a beer?" He didn't wait for my answer but instead turned to jog up the hill towards the groundskeeper's hut. I couldn't help myself. I followed him.

The hut was just as ramshackle as I remembered it from all those years before, although it had obviously been expanded, and the interior was clean and bright, charmed from the one room into wizard space. A sitting room and a sunny kitchen split off from the front hall, and a set of curving stairs led up to what I assumed were bedrooms. Potter led me into the kitchen, heading for a pantry, and waved me towards the heavy oak table next to the window.

"Sit."

Sheer white curtains covered the open window, billowing softly in the faint breeze. Sunlight filtered through them and stretched across the whitewashed plank floorboards. A black and white cat napped in the beams, moving occasionally to yawn and bat sleepily at the dust motes dancing in the air around his face. In the corner, next to the back door, was the Nimbus I'd shoved at Harry earlier. It listed to one side. I wondered why he'd kept it.

"Where are the kids?" I asked.

Potter set a bottle of Harp in front of me and took the opposite seat. "Probably in the Forest, exactly where I told them not to go," he said wryly. "I'll find out tonight. Lily cracks the easiest, which annoys her brothers."

"I can imagine." I smiled and lifted my beer to my mouth. It was warm and rich. "James is a good kid."

"Yeah." Potter leaned his elbows on the table, twisting his beer bottle. "He feels responsible for all of us."

"I know."

Potter looked up at me. "He likes you."

I grunted into my bottle. "I like him."

"I know."

We sat silently, both of us drinking our beer, then Potter sighed. "I'm not trying to ruin his fun."

I leaned back in the chair. The cat sat up, yawning widely, and scratched his ear. "I didn't say you were."

Potter frowned. "Then why are we having this discussion?"

"Is it a discussion?" I watched him for a moment. "Why won't you fly? You still have the broom I gave you."

His mouth tightened. "I just haven't had a chance to return it."

"Balls," I said, with a roll of my eyes. "You want to fly. You just won't let yourself. Are you really that frightened? Just because of what happened to your wife?"

"Leave Ginny out of this," Potter said quietly.

"How?" I ran my hand over my face. He sounded like his son. "Look, Potter, she died. It was a shit way to die. I understand that. I even understand why you don't want your kids on brooms. You don't want to lose someone like that again. But you... I've seen you fly. Hermione used to say that you were at your best on a broom. It was like breathing for you. And you're going to throw that away?"

He looked away.

"Come on," I said. "Make me see why."

Potter's fingers tensed on his bottle. He ran a thumb up the neck, then back down again, thumbnail catching on the label. "Because of them." He looked at me then. "My kids. They lost their Mum. They can't lose me too. Why do you think I left the Aurors?" His face twisted; his lips pressed together. "I fucking loved my job. And then Ginny--" He broke off and looked away. "We'd been arguing for months," he said softly. "I didn't want her to go back to work, or that's what I told her. I don't know what I wanted, really. Maybe for things not to change." He laughed, a raw, bitter huff. "Lot of good that did."

"You feel guilty." I understood. I'd had a screaming argument with Papa two days before he died. We hadn't apologised. I'd never forgiven myself for that. I didn't think I ever would.

"She wanted to leave." Potter stared down at the table. "She told me before the match. Said she thought it was best for all of us. There were things... I'd done..." He broke off, not saying anything for a long moment. "I don't know why I'm telling you this," he said finally, taking a swig of beer.

I didn't answer.

He sighed and leaned his head against the wall. He looked so damn much like his son at that moment. "I was a shit husband."

"So?"

Potter gave me an incredulous look. "What's that supposed to mean?"

I set my beer down. "You've spent five years playing martyr because you were having problems in your marriage?"

"No." Potter glared down at his beer. He had a smudge on one of his lenses.

"Oh, get over yourself, Harry," I said, lip curled.

He just looked up, shocked, and then he laughed again, real and bright. "Get over yourself, you cheating wanker."

I tried to hide my flinch. He saw it.

"I'm sorry," he said, his cheeks pinking. "I just--"

I shrugged. "It's fine."

He hesitated. "Why'd you do it?" he asked finally. "Throw the match, I mean. It's not like you. You're not the sort."

I ran a finger over the rim of my bottle. It took me a minute to pull myself together. "I don't want to talk about it. Anyway, you're the one trying to convince me that you don't want to avoid flying out of guilt." I lifted my beer again. "Your first excuse was better."

Potter didn't say anything. He peeled a corner of the bottle label off, letting it drift down to the tabletop. "Maybe I want to punish myself. Maybe I'm afraid the same thing will happen to me." He rubbed over the gummy residue on the glass. "I don't want my kids to be hurt again."

"That's really stupid, you know." I drained my beer.

"I know."

I took his bottle from him. Our fingers brushed and I shivered. He stared at me, and I couldn't pull my gaze away. The moment stretched out; our hands were so close I could feel the heat of his skin. I wanted. _Wanted,_ oh Christ.

"Why'd you kiss me?" Potter asked softly, leaning towards me. "Last night."

"I remember what night it was," I said.

Potter smiled, a flash of white against tan. "That's not an answer."

"I didn't intend it to be."

"Yeah?" Potter was close enough for his breath to gust against my mouth. His voice was quiet, husky.

A shiver ran through me. "Yeah."

His lips were chapped but gentle, and when his fingertips brushed my jaw, I groaned, opening my mouth to his. I could barely breathe. All I could feel was Potter; all I could smell was Potter. Warm, soft, earthy, sweaty... Christ.

The front door slammed. "Dad!"

I jerked away, my eyes wide. Potter was leaning over the table, his breath ragged, his throat swallowing. He slid back in his chair, just as Lily ran in, red braids flying behind her.

"Dad," she said breathlessly, "Al's being mean again--" She broke off at the sight of me, and she looked back at her father, then over at me again, catching her lip between her front teeth. One was missing. She ducked her head, almost coquettishly, eyeing me with a charming wariness.

I stood up. "I should be going."

Lily was clinging to her father's side, her arm wrapped around his waist. "You don't have to," Potter said. He rested his fingertips on his daughter's shoulder.

Oh, yes. I did.

I gave him a small smile. "Think about what I said." I didn't wait for him to answer.

This time I was the one who ran.

***

I did my damnedest not to look at Potter during dinner.

I could feel him watching me, though, and my face warmed. I dared a glance when I asked Longbottom to pass the bread. Potter had turned his head to say something to Al. He looked up, catching me, and our eyes met. He stilled, his fork dangling from his fingertips, and I nodded at him.

Potter licked his bottom lip and looked away.

"Tell me," I asked Longbottom, my eyes still on Potter, "has he dated anyone since his wife died?"

"Harry?" Longbottom frowned and cut his roast into tiny pieces. "No. Hannah--that's my girl--she and I tried to set him up with a friend of hers last year, but he wasn't interested."

I buttered my bread, dragging the knife across the crumbly crust. "He hasn't had sex in five years?"

Longbottom choked on his roast; I pounded him on the back. "I suppose not," he said after Filius had pressed a glass of water on him in concern. "Why?"

"Curiosity." I bit into the bread.

"Right." Longbottom eyed me over his glass. "Thinking about making a move?"

I didn't bother to admit I'd already tried and I was pretty damn certain it'd been reciprocated. Instead I shrugged and looked at Longbottom out the corner of my eye. I wanted information from someone who'd known him. I'd rather Hermione were here. "Would he object?"

Longbottom didn't answer for a long moment. He dragged the tines of his fork across his asparagus. "Don't know," he said finally. "There were some rumours about him and Malfoy sixth year."

I leaned forward, my interest piqued. "Draco Malfoy?" I remembered him. Blond, hair falling into his face. Obsequious little git and far too touchy, but amusing at times when he made the attempt. All of us from Durmstrang had pegged him as a poof within the first week despite that sour-tongued little bitch draped over him.

"We didn't want to believe the rumours," Longbottom said. "Most of them came from Ravenclaws, and we reckoned they were just jealous. But Harry never really tried all that hard to deny them."

I looked back at Potter. "And he was only with Ginny?"

"Yeah." Longbottom glanced down the table. "Hannah was always surprised by that. She didn't think they fit all that well."

I reached for my glass of pumpkin juice, wishing it was a beer.

When Potter looked at me next, I didn't look away.

***

I was about to turn off the lights when the knock came.

Potter was standing in the corridor outside my quarters, a tweed jacket thrown over his t-shirt. He held a school broom in his hand, fingers clutched tight around it. "I brought your broom back," he said, thrusting it at me. He didn't look at me.

I took the broom and sniffed. I could smell firewhisky. "Are you pissed?"

He gave me a wry smile. "I wish. I just had a drink with Neville. He's still with the kids." He hesitated. "Bit of Dutch courage, I suppose."

"Right." I tossed the broom inside the door, ignoring the clatter it made when it hit the floor, and leaned against the doorjamb. "We use rakia for that in Bulgaria."

Potter grinned. "That shit'll knock you on your arse." His eyes slid down me, and I folded my arms across my chest, suddenly aware of my faded t-shirt and threadbare pyjama bottoms with the hem coming out of one leg. Very sexy, Krum. Brilliant, in fact.

"Where'd you try rakia?" I asked, trying to distract him.

It worked. "What?" He swallowed and looked back up at me, his throat tensing. "Oh. Ron and I went to one of your games a few years back, when you played PuddUnited. Just before..." He hesitated. "Just before Ginny. We spent the weekend in Sofia getting pissed."

I shifted against the door, rubbing one hand over an elbow. "The last time you did that?"

"Yeah." Potter ran both hands through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead. The small movement caused his jacket and t-shirt to ride up just enough to expose a narrow swathe of golden skin over a sharp hipbone. I breathed in sharply; he looked at me. I was almost certain I didn't imagine his faint smirk. "The last time I did a lot of things, actually." He looked away, his face falling. "Look," he said, "you tell me your truth; I'll tell you mine."

I pushed the door open. "All right. I think I've a bottle of rakia tucked away, if you want to try it again."

"Sure." He followed me in, closing the door behind him, and I went straight for the hutch, pulling out two shot glasses and a bottle Aleksandra had tucked in my trunk before I left. I sat down on the sofa, nodding towards the other end as I poured, and he shrugged off his jacket, tossing it over the ottoman, and dropped down next to me. I handed him a glass.

"Nazdrave," I said, clinking our glasses, and Potter murmured _cheers_ as I tossed mine back. The rakia was sweetly smooth, with a tinge of plums. Aleksandra always did know how to pick a damn good bottle.

I set my glass aside, wiping my thumb across the corner of my mouth, and waited. Potter sipped his rakia slowly. Bloody English. I leaned back into the corner of the sofa, my arm draped over its back.

He finally looked over at me. "Tell me why you threw the match."

I'd been expecting it. He'd always been a damned persistent arsehole. What the hell. It wasn't like it mattered. Or Potter'd run to the papers. He knew what it was like, being in the public's eye all the time. Having them expect perfection. Always.

The fire crackled in the hearth in front of us. Even summer nights in the Highlands can have a slight bite to them. I stared into the flickering flames for a moment, then I sighed. "I'm horrid with money," I said. "Perhaps because I grew up without much. It just seemed useless to save it. Money was meant to be spent, right?" I shook my head ruefully. "I'm an idiot, I know. Long story short, my sister's ill. We didn't expect it, and there wasn't anything the Healers could do for her."

"What is it?" Potter leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. Shadows stretched across his face. I could see the reflection of the hearth flames in his glasses.

"A type of cancer," I said, my ragged thumbnail scratching across my flannel-covered knee. It caught on a thread. "It adhered to the part of her neurological system associated with magical processes. It's rare. Hard to treat." I looked up at him. "There's an experimental program in Switzerland though. They thought they could help her."

Potter's hand brushed mine. "The treatment wasn't covered?"

I shook my head. "It hadn't been fully tested. They wouldn't pay. I tried everything. I spent weeks haunting every health service office in the whole damned Ministry and every one of them told me no. Same with the hospitals. It was too dangerous. They wouldn't risk it." Bile rose in my throat. I clenched my jaw, swallowing. "It was better for them, more convenient, if the disease killed her and not the potions. Bastards, trying to cover their own arses."

Potter pulled one knee up to his chest, resting his chin on it. "And you didn't have the money."

"No." I stared down at my hands. "I had part of it, but not enough. I'd been asked to throw a match before and said no. So..."

"You went and asked them if they still wanted you to."

I met his eyes. "Yeah."

Potter finished his rakia and set his glass down next to mine. He shifted closer, crossing his legs. The sofa cushion dipped beneath him. "It was stupid of you."

"Yeah." I studied his mouth. His lip was still slick with the liquor. It gleamed in the firelight. "Your turn."

He closed his eyes. Behind his glasses, thick black lashes curled against his skin. "Ask."

"Why did you leave the Aurors?" I asked softly.

Potter's eyes flew open. It wasn't the question he'd anticipated, obviously. He sucked in his cheek; his mouth pursed. "Why do you care?"

"I don't know," I admitted. "I suppose because we're not so very different, you and me. Top of our field, reduced to hiding in a school in Scotland for one reason or another. You know mine. I'm curious to yours. And why you chose groundskeeping when Minerva surely would have given you a professorship if you'd crooked one finger."

He ducked his head, fringe falling across his forehead. I could still see the faint outline of the scar on his skin. "I didn't want one."

"Why not?" The log in the fire cracked and sent sparks flying up the chimney.

Potter ran a fingertip along the crease between the cushions. "I didn't want the responsibility, I suppose." He looked up at me. "I spent my entire life with all these expectations of who I should be and what I could do, and after Ginny...." He sighed. "I just wanted a chance to be myself. Not be stared at or whispered about. As far as the students care, I'm the groundskeeper they see at meals and wandering about. Most of them don't give me a second glance. I didn't have that in the Ministry."

I just watched him. He ran a hand through his hair; it flopped to one side.

"I had a hard time after Ginny died," he said quietly. "I had three kids who needed me and didn't understand what was going on, and all I could do was crawl into a bottle." He wrapped his arms around his knees, pulling them up to his chest. His trainers left dusty smudges on the edge of the sofa cushion. I didn't care. "I hurt everywhere. I was barely paying attention to the kids--Jamie was better at looking after the other two than I was, and he was _five._I stopped sleeping. I stopped going to work. The Auror department doesn't really look kindly on that. They put up with it for a few months then told me to shape up or leave."

"You left." There was a small, frayed hole in the knee of his jeans. I could see a flash of skin before he smoothed his thumb over it.

"Yeah."

I reached for the bottle of rakia and poured another glass, pressing it into his hand. He drained it quickly. "You were grieving," I said. "It's normal--"

His eyes met mine, shadowed and dark. "I was guilty."

"Not this again." I rolled my eyes. "Just because you were arguing--"

"I cheated on her," he said abruptly. "She found out a few days before the match." I fell silent, watching him. The glass dangled from his fingers; he twisted it slowly, watching a stray drop of rakia roll down the side. "It wasn't the first time."

"Sofia."

Potter nodded. "Ron had gone up to bed to sleep off the drunk. I was still in the hotel bar. And there was a bloke." He lifted his glass to his mouth, catching the last drop on his tongue. He looked at me over the rim. "Ron figured it out when he realised I never came up to bed. He still thinks it was a woman." He swallowed. "I don't think he's ever forgiven me for that; he blames me for Ginny."

I poured him another half-glass. "He told her."

"Yeah." Potter stared down at the clear, golden liquor. "He still keeps up with the kids. He just doesn't want to talk to me much."

"So she told you she wanted to leave before the match." I set the bottle aside without pouring myself any. I needed a clear head.

Potter took a long swig of rakia. His throat tensed as he swallowed. "I was relieved. We'd been fighting for a while over everything. The kids. Her job. My job. I picked arguments, I reckon, sometimes." His fingers tightened on his glass. "It's not that I didn't love her. But neither of us was happy."

"Was it always blokes?" I asked gently. He looked so damned fragile sitting across from me, as if he might shatter at any moment.

"Always." He pressed his glass to his cheek, closing his eyes for just a moment. "I never wanted a woman other than her. I just..." He looked at me, face sad. "I'm not proud of myself."

"You'd been together since school." I took the glass from him, draining it. He watched me, silent. "It happens. You were a shit. But she didn't die because you cheated on her." He looked away. I caught his chin, turning his face back to me. "She didn't."

His mouth trembled. "If I'd been there I could have stopped it. I could have caught her. A charm--"

"Harry. Harry." I stroked my thumb along his jaw. I loved the burr of his name on my tongue. "There were thousands of people there, Harry. Witches and wizards trained to keep players safe. It was their _job_, and even they couldn't save her. It happened. It was an accident. That's all."

"If she hadn't been upset--"

"You don't know that." I curled my palm over his cheek. His skin was soft, his breath a warm huff against my wrist. Harry. "Stop punishing yourself. That's what you're doing with the flying. Taking away something you love out of guilt and fear. Punishing your son because you're afraid you haven't paid a high enough price for your sins. You stupid idiot."

Harry leaned into my touch. "I'm a Gryffindor."

"You're a fool, is what you are," I murmured, and I brushed my lips against his.

With a soft groan he grabbed my t-shirt, twisting it around his fists as he pulled me closer, his mouth opening to mine. "Viktor," he whispered, and then he was kissing me, rough and hard, his teeth dragging across my bottom lip.

I shuddered and grabbed his hip, pulling him towards me. Harry swung one leg over mine and straddled my thighs as he pushed me back against the arm of the couch. He drew back, his mouth wet and swollen, and he slowly, carefully, excruciatingly slid his fingertips down my chest. He was breathing hard; his shoulders were tense.

"You know what it's like," he whispered. "Everyone watching, always."

I pushed at his t-shirt, sliding it up his wiry back. "Yeah." His skin was warm beneath my palms. I could feel the ridge of his spine, each knob and bump hard against my fingers.

Harry caught my mouth again, kissing me softly, and I drew in a ragged breath. "All of them certain what's best for you," he said against my lips. "When they've no..." He dragged his mouth along the curve of my jaw. "No idea what you need."

"Yes," I said into his throat, pulling back only to tug his t-shirt off, and then my mouth was against his skin again, sucking, biting, tasting the salty-sweet warmth.

He arched against me, pressing his hips forward, and I hissed against his collarbone as my cock caught on a wrinkle of denim. And then Harry's hand was between us, sliding over my pyjama bottoms, twisting the flannel around the head of my prick, and I dug my fingers into his shoulders, pulling him closer.

"Please," Harry said, and I pulled at his jeans, jerking the buttons open as he leaned forward and raised up enough for me to jerk them down his hips, his pants following. I lifted his swelling cock out, smoothed my fingers along his heated skin. He grabbed my face, cupping it between his palms, kissing me. His glasses pressed into my cheek. "Please," he said again, his breath hot on my lips, and I couldn't stop my moan.

I stroked him, hard and quick, my fingers tight around his prick, each of his soft gasps sending a shiver of want through me. He rocked into my hand, begged me between eager kisses to pull harder, faster, _please._

My cock ached.

And then Harry pulled my hand away, his kisses fluttering across my fingertips, and he grabbed the hem of my t-shirt. "Off," he said breathlessly, and I leaned forward, my hands bumping against his as we both jerked the faded cotton over my head.

He sat back on my thighs, his short, thick prick curving from his rumpled jeans, his glasses cocked over the bridge of his nose. I pulled them off and set them aside; his eyes softened and he blinked down at me. My pyjama bottoms were tented, a wet spot already spreading across the front placket. Harry stared at it, his breath coming in soft, quick pants. I touched his chest, ran my fingers lightly over his skin. Firm muscle, soft dark hair. His nipples were brown and hard, and he closed his eyes as I rubbed my thumb over one.

"Viktor." Harry caught my hand but didn't stop me. Instead, his fingers twined with mine, both of us pressing against his skin. "Christ."

I pulled my fingers away, grabbing his back with both hands as I sat up, pulling him up against me as I dragged my tongue across his chest. I bit the other nipple, sucking it into my mouth. Harry gasped, clutched the back of my head, rocked forward. His cock bobbed against my stomach. "Viktor," he whispered again, carding his fingers through my hair. He pressed his lips against my temple. "Viktor."

My mouth moved over his skin, kissing, licking, sucking, biting. I pulled him up, slid my hands over his bare arse. Harry lurched forward, catching himself on the arm of the couch. He watched, mouth open, the muscles in his shoulders hunched, as I bent slightly, leaning in to suck the head of his cock.

"Jesus _fuck_." His arse clenched beneath my fingers; I kneaded it, pulled at it, desperate to touch him. His cock tasted musky, bitter, and I slid my mouth further down his shaft, one hand slipping through the gap between his thighs to stroke behind his balls. Harry swore and his fingers twisted in my hair.

We moved together, hands sliding across skin, cocks rutting against each other with each needy kiss. Mad as it was, I felt as if I hadn't been touched in years--I couldn't get enough of his body pressed to mine. "Harry," I said finally, tearing my mouth from his, one hand tangled in his messy hair. "Are you sure--"

"Shut _up_," he said impatiently, and he cut me off with another kiss. I lost my balance, tumbling to the floor and Harry landed on top of me. He pulled back and grinned, rocking his cock against mine. "I like this."

"You did that on purpose." I smoothed my hands down his back, lingering at the curve of his arse.

"Maybe." He reached for his jeans, fumbling in the pocket, and pulled out a small phial. He popped the wax seal. "This should prove I'm sure."

I watched him drizzle the oil over his fingers. "You really did do this on purpose."

Harry smiled and set the phial aside. "I was just hoping. Not expecting."

"Right." I leaned up on one elbow. "What makes you think I bottom?"

He paused, his fingers at my arse. "I'll do it for you later?"

I spread my thighs.

Harry laughed, warmly, and he pressed a finger into me. I fell back onto the floor with a groan. I love being fucked. I almost never am. It's not manly enough to want a prick up your arse, my partners always think, at least not for an international Quidditch star. Fuck that.

I pressed up against Harry's hand. "More," I choked out and he didn't hesitate. Another finger slipped in and then another and it was all I could do not to grab my cock and jerk it hard. Instead one hand flailed out, grabbing the side of the sofa, and I pushed my heels into the floor. "Harry--"

"Tell me to fuck you," Harry said in my ear. His fingers moved inside of me, pressing and twisting deeper, faster. I wanted more, wanted him, _Christ--_

"Fuck me," I said, breathless, rolling my hips against the floor, and Harry kissed me, tongue and teeth. I grabbed the nape of his neck, holding him still, needing his mouth, needing to taste him, to have him...

He pulled away; I groaned in frustration, and then he was over me, pressing into me and it'd been so fucking _long_.

I gripped his shoulders. He was shaking, sinking into me slowly, carefully, and that wasn't what I wanted--_Jesus, **fuck** me_\--and he cried out when I rocked up against him, taking his cock all the way into me with one urgent thrust.

We lay there for a moment, breathing hard, Harry's face buried in the curve of my throat. "Harry," I murmured, his cock stretching me, burning, tight, oh God. "Harry, please--"

He groaned and shifted, pushing himself up. I spread my legs wider, dug my toes into the carpet. "You're mad," Harry whispered, but he kissed me, and he twisted his hips just enough to tantalise me. Bastard. I bit his neck.

"I said _fuck_ me," I growled, and he laughed softly, nearly pulling out of me before he slammed back in.

"Yes," I hissed, and it hurt, Christ it hurt, but I didn't care because Harry was in me finally. I grabbed his hips, pulling him tighter against me, holding him still for a moment. His balls rubbed against my arse. I felt full. Stretched. Whole. I closed my eyes and breathed out. My cock throbbed.

"Viktor," Harry said.

I _hmm_ed.

Amusement tinged Harry's voice. "I can't really fuck you like this."

My eyes fluttered open. He was smiling down at me. "Right," I said, and I slid my hands up his back. "Better?"

Harry brushed his mouth against mine. "Yeah." He pulled back, then thrust in again, hard enough to lift my hips from the floor.

"Fuck," I said, my fingers digging in to his shoulders.

Harry grinned down at me. His fringe fell into his eyes, catching on the damp skin at the corners. "I think that's the point."

"Arsehole." I tightened myself around his cock and Harry breathed in sharply, his eyes darkening. He shoved into me again, and I arched up, dragging my mouth down the side of his neck. "God, _yes._"

Harry growled against my skin. He fucked me, hard and fast, his arms trembling as he held himself up over me. My fingers slid over his sweaty skin; my nails bit into his shoulders. His balls slapped against my arse, and he tugged one of my legs up, draping it over his shoulder so he could fuck me deeper.

My prick ached, and with each quick thrust it bobbed against Harry's stomach, sliding stickily over his skin. "Harder," I said, and he groaned, staring down at me with unfocused eyes.

"I--" Harry arched his neck. "Viktor--" He tensed, pressed his hips hard against my arse before pulling back and slamming into me once again. "Oh, _Christ,_ I can't--"

I pulled him into a desperate kiss and reached between us to grab my cock. I jerked roughly, the wet head slipping through my fingers. I was so close, so fucking bloody close. "Come for me, Harry," I said against his mouth. "Let me see you--let me feel you--come _on_, damn it--"

"Fuck, you bastard," Harry moaned, and he shoved into me, all sense of rhythm gone, his hips snapping against mine, pressing me hard into the floor. I grabbed the arm of the couch, pushed up with my free foot, arched into each thrust, begging him to fuck me, harder, faster, _now_ for God's sake--

Harry came with a cry, his whole body shuddering, shaking over me.

He was beautiful.

"Harry," I whispered against his jaw. My leg slid off his shoulder. His ragged breath was hot against my cheek. He knocked my hand away from my prick, curling his fingers around the head.

"Your turn," he choked out, his fist tight around me, and my hips bucked with his first stroke.

I came hard, arching off the floor, my hand on Harry's wrist. I fell back with a groan. My whole body thrummed; my toes curled against the carpet. Harry touched me lightly, his fingers ghosting over my sticky prick.

We lay still for a long moment, our harsh gasps echoing in the room. Harry pressed his face against my chest and slowly slid out of me, settling by my side. I groaned and caught his hand, pulling it up to press his knuckles to my mouth.

"Bloody amazing," he said finally and I laughed.

"Something like that, yeah." I turned my head to look at him. He was smiling at me, his hair messily rumpled, his eyes bright. I touched his mouth. "Don't go," I said.

He kissed my fingertips. "I could stay a while." His tongue licked across my thumb. "Neville said he'd kip on my sofa tonight."

I snorted. "Didn't expect you back, did he?"

Harry grinned. "Told me I'd be an idiot not to jump at a shag with a fallen Quidditch star."

"Smart man." I was going to have to buy Longbottom a drink. Or twenty. "Think we might fuck in the bed next go? I'm a bit too old for the floor, I think."

"Christ, yes," Harry groaned pitifully, rolling on his back. He stared up at the ceiling. "I think I just shot my knees to hell for you. Fuck me harder, my arse."

I clambered to my feet and held out a hand. Harry's fingers curled around mine. "Not a bad idea, I'd say."

Harry kissed me. "Shut up and take me to bed, Krum."

I did.

***

It was still dark when I woke. I rolled over in bed, the sheet twisted around me. Harry sat on the edge of the mattress, tying his trainers. He gave me a small smile.

"You're leaving?" My voice was raspy and rough, my mouth dry as cotton. My whole body ached. Watching him, I felt unsettled. Disturbed. I wasn't certain why; God knows I'd done more than my share of early morning disappearances. Just… I hadn't taken Harry for a fuck-and-runner. It disappointed me.

"The kids," he said, dropping his foot to the floor. "I need to get back before they wake up. Besides, I owe Neville breakfast at least."

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, trying to ignore a surge of jealousy towards Longbottom. "I didn't realise your cooking was a reward."

Harry grinned. "I can do a decent fry-up." He stood, and the mattress creaked. "Maybe I'll do one for you someday."

"Maybe," I said. I leaned up on one elbow. I took a deep breath, tried to look calm. "Next time?" My cheeks warmed. God, I wanted a next time. And a time after that. And after that…

"Next time." Harry met my eyes. Relief washed over me. He raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't going to leave without waking you. Just so you know."

I flopped back against the pillows and grinned, raising my arms up over my head. The sheet pulled lower on my stomach and Harry's gaze followed it. "Didn't think you were."

"Right." Harry leaned over me, one knee on the bed. I could see a small bruise on the side of his neck that I was pretty damn certain came from my mouth. "You're a terrible liar, Krum." He brushed his lips against mine.

I caught the back of his head, sliding my fingers through his rumpled hair, holding him still as I kissed him slowly. He finally pulled away, eyes soft, mouth swollen. He touched my cheek. "I have to go," he murmured. "You should sleep."

"Probably." I wondered if I had enough left in me to wank. Maybe not. Save that for a pre-breakfast shower. I actually was fucking tired. And my whole damn body ached. Fucking Harry was more exhausting than anything Zograf could have come up with for training. I stretched and yawned. "You can go now."

Harry laughed softly and kissed me again before he pulled back. I watched him walk away with a smile, enjoying his arse in jeans. "Not shabby, Potter," I said, and he snorted, flashing two fingers back at me.

He hesitated at my bedroom door, hand on the knob. "I reckon," he said slowly, "if you wanted to, that is… I might be interested…" He shifted from one foot to the other. "Look, do you want to go flying this afternoon? With me?" He didn't look at me.

I grinned. "I could do."

A small smile played across Harry's face. "After lunch then, on the pitch."

"Bring James."

He nodded, and the door snicked shut behind him.

The night I left Bulgaria Aleksandra had asked me, over a bottle of rakia, if I could truly be happy away from the rush and thrill of Quidditch, if I could truly be content to hide myself in Scotland, so far from home and family. I'd told her happiness was an impossibility, that I'd settle for quiet. For solitude. For peace.

Perhaps I'd been wrong.

She'd be pleased.

I burrowed into my pillows, pulled the sheet up over my shoulder and smiled into the darkness.


End file.
